Douglas Murray, sitting beside the unknown girl as she drove out of Two Palms, was for a moment dazed by the face of her. With Koheleth, Murray had sworn that all was vanity and an empty chasing after winds; yet the very sight of this girl's face, anxious and smitten as it was with hurried fear, for a space struck the cynicism from him.  
"You're a real physician?" she asked, her eyes not lifting from the road ahead.
 
"I am, madam; Douglas Murray, at your service. I arrived in Two Palms about ten minutes ago, and from what I have seen of the place, I do not wonder at your astonishment."
 
"Oh—I remember now! There were automobiles there." She flashed him a sudden, swift glance, then returned her gaze to the road. "My name is Claire Lee. My father has been hurt—we had a puncture, and while I was fixing it, he wandered off on the hillside. I think he fell. After I got him back into the car, he fainted, and he looked so terribly ill that I stopped at the first opportunity to leave him in the shade, and managed to get him there. The road is so rough that I thought it would hurt his leg——"
 
"Very well done," said Murray quietly. He wondered what kind of a man her father could be, to let this girl fix a puncture. "The road is pretty bad, beyond a doubt. Was his leg broken?"
 
"I don't know. I was so afraid—I thought it might have been a rattlesnake, but he said no——"
 
Something in the way she bit off her words hurriedly and anxiously, struck Murray as out of the ordinary. He dismissed the query as he studied her face, feeling a little in awe of its startling and indefinable beauty. Despite its quietly poised strength, despite the upflung chin, its every line was carven with a rarely delicate precision. Each contour was mose exquisitely balanced. The hands and fingers, too, revealed this same fine artistry of line.
 
In her face lay character, strong and sensitive; no whit out of drawing, as Murray would have expected to find in a girl of the desert places. Only in her eyes lay a deeply indefinite shadow, a hint of rebellious pride, expectant, as though ready to take up arms instantly against some dogging trouble-maker. The sheer beauty that shone from her clearly level blue eyes and veiled her pale, sun-golden skin, was about her like an evanescent gossamer substance, striking her lightest word into shiftings of lost meanings and half-sensed sweetness.
 
"Clairedelune!" thought Murray. "Clairedelune—lady of the troubadours, sweet lovehurt of the soul—dear spirit-fragrant whiteness of the silvern moonbeam in the fairy ring! Clairedelune—embodied ecstasy of the poet's soul, the light that never was on land or sea——"
 
A sardonic curve tipped his lips as the flivver bucked and reared and cracked his brow against its top.
 
"Oh!" exclaimed the girl penitently. "I'm sorry I I always do the wrong thing with this car. I've just learned to drive it, and it's so different from a Twin-Duplex! I always open the throttle when I mean to close it."
 
So she had been driving a Twin-Duplex! The more Murray studied her, the more her presence here puzzled him. Wealth and breeding—even in the lines of the khaki dress was the one, and the other lay in her eyes.
 
"You've not been long in this country?" he asked.
 
"No, we came from San Francisco." She checked the words abruptly, as though she had spoken before thought. Then, perhaps finding it necessary to avoid abruptness, she added: "And I broke the plate-holders when I got father into the car—just as we thought we had succeeded! That means it must be done all over again."
 
"Taking photographs, eh?" Murray laughed whimsically. "It seems to me, Miss Lee, that you could take photographs anywhere in this country and they'd be all the same!"
 
"Oh, no indeed! We've been looking for a particular place—well, no matter. There's where father is."
 
She pointed ahead to a patch of green and brown. This was Piute's so-called ranch—a frame shack beside the road, with a few young Lombardy poplars sprouting into the sky, and acres of young pears stretching symmetrically across the desert floor. The dull clank clank of the pumping engine reverberated ceaselessly. No one lived on the place, but Piute Tomkins came out twice a week and had the engine going during these intervals, for irrigation purposes.
 
Experiments of some kind, thought Murray; that explained it very well. The father was a scientist engaged in work here, no doubt.
 
Murray thought at first that the road ended here; then he saw that it continued, an indefinite track winding away over the blazing, sun-white desert surface, winding between outpost yuccas, across to the horizon of this level expanse, as level as a billiard table, swept and garnished by the desert winds.
 
"Oh, he is conscious—and watching us!" exclaimed the girl as she halted the car.
 
Murray leaped out. In the scant shade under the poplars, beside the road, lay the figure of a man, shoulders and head propped up by his rolled-up coat. His open eyes were fastened upon Murray as the latter approached.
 
It was with a distinct mental shock, almost a physical shock, that Murray realized this man was a most unmistakable Chinaman. Then, for the first time, he remembered the tale of the desert rat in Meteorite.
 
So he understood now the shadow in the girl's eyes—yet, he swore to himself that there must be some tremendous error of providence here! He did not look back at the girl; he gave his whole attention to the matter in hand. He heard her voice speaking his name, and saw the man before him make a quiet gesture of acceptance. Then Tom Lee spoke.
 
"My left leg, doctor. The knee is hurt. The pain is severe."
 
Murray saw now, that the strong, masterful, yellow features were beaded with the sweat of pain. He knelt, then glanced up.
 
"A knife, Miss Lee? I shall cut these trousers to avoid causing further suffering——"
 
It was Tom Lee who silently reached into his pocket and produced a knife, which the girl took and opened, handing it to Murray. The latter fell to work.
 
For ten seconds, the slender, powerful hands of Murray busied themselves about the injured member; a scant ten seconds, touching lightly and deftly. Then from Tom Lee broke a low, tensioned grunt of agony. His fingers clenched at the ground, his head fell back into the arms of the girl. He was senseless.
 
"Oh!" she cried out. "What is it—what have you done——"
 
Murray rose. The old sardonic twist was in his face now as he looked upon them. Still the clear beauty of the girl drove into his heart; the frightened, wondering face of her was like a sweet hurt to the soul.
 
"A dislocated knee," he said quietly. "I have replaced it. Perhaps we had better lift him and place him in the car now, while he is unconscious. A few days of repose will see him none the worse."
 
"There is nothing else?" she exclaimed. "But you have not examined——"
 
Murray's brows lifted. "My dear young lady," he said drily, "more than one surgeon has been glad to stand at my operating table and learn of my technique. In this case, I have both examined and operated; there remains only convalescence."
 
A slow flush crept into her face, as she stared at him. But she ignored his rebuke.
 
"Why—it was wonderful! A touch—only a touch——"
 
Murray bowed. He had left his hat in the car, and the late afternoon sun struck his coppery hair to red gold.
 
"Thank you, Miss Lee," he said, and smiled frankly. "I value that compliment more than many I have received in other days. And now, may I suggest that we lift him into the car at once? I will take—or wait! There is a house of some kind here; let us make him comfortable for the night. You return to town in that car, and obtain some more easy-riding conveyance. He is a large man, and would have to sit doubled up; we could not get into town before dark, and I would like to bandage his knee properly without delay. An hour or so might make a difference of days in his recovery."
 
"Just as you think best," she answered. "He must recover as soon as possible——"
 
"I'll look around here."
 
As he sought the shack, Murray angrily shrugged his shoulders. The discovery of the racial identity of her father had left him dazed; now he revolted inwardly against the fact. There was nothing good in the world after all. Beautiful as this girl was, exquisite as she was, she was a living lie—not by her own fault, perhaps, but no less a lie. For Murray, the world was tainted again.
 
He found the shack to be a one-room affair, containing two bunks with dubious blankets, a table, and two chairs. Behind it was a shed containing the clanking gas-engine, upon which he promptly put a quietus. Returning, he found Tom Lee still unconscious.
 
"Let us carry him. I'll take him about the hips—you take his shoulders."
 
Although he had perforce taken for granted her ability, Murray was a little surprised at the way in which the girl carried her share of the burden—lightly and with ease. Strength in that fragility, he thought!
 
When they had put the man in one of the bunks, Claire spoke quietly.
 
"If you'll wait here, please, I'll get some stuff for bandages."
 
He nodded, and sat down beside the bunk. He watched the face of Tom Lee curiously, and to his inward astonishment found himself reckoning it a very fine face. Here was not one of hybrid orientals who seeks notoriety by taking unto himself a white wife; in repose, the man's face was singularly massive, eloquent of self-repression, instinct with a firm command. Not a handsome face in any sense, but most striking. A man, thought Murray, who lived a stern inner life—a man who had mastered the secret of reserve.
 
"Here," said the girl's voice. Murray turned to her. She was extending several strips of silk and one of linen; her clear eyes spoke of anxious solicitude, but were unembarrassed.
 
"He has not recovered yet?"
 
"Thank you. These are excellent, Miss Lee! I'll have him fixed up in no time. No, I don't want him to recover just yet."
 
He was aware that she had again left the shack, but now he was bending over the man's figure, intent upon his task, bandaging the injured knee firmly and deftly. When at length he finished and sat back, he found that the liquid black eyes of Tom Lee were open and were calmly regarding him.
 
"Broken?" demanded the yellow man laconically.
 
"No; dislocated. You'll be around in a few days."
 
The massive chest heaved, as though in a deep breath of relief. The eyes flickered again to the doorway; following them, Murray saw Claire enter, a basket in her hand.
 
"Fortunately, we've some lunch left, Doctor Murray—oh!" She saw that Tom Lee was awake, and she hastened to the bunk, pressing her lips to the cheek of the yellow man. "I'm so glad it's nothing serious, Father! And wasn't it wonderful to find Doctor Murray——"
 
The big powerful hand of the yellow man patted her shoulder.
 
"It's all right, my dear," said Tom Lee, surprising Murray again by the perfection of his English. "No great harm done. The pictures are safe?"
 
"I broke them—getting you into the car——"
 
"Never mind." The yellow face was quite impassive. "Easy enough to get more, Claire. Why am I in this place, Doctor? And where is it?"
 
Murray explained to him in a few words. "I'll stop here with you, while Miss Lee goes in to town for a wagon or vehicle of some sort—even a buckboard might do. There's no great hurry about it. We're only a few miles from town, and I'd not advise moving you before the morning."
 
"Very well, Doctor," said the deep, grave voice. "Suppose that you leave Claire with me, and you take the car into town. You'll find a thermos of tea in the car—we had an extra one that we did not use. If you'd not mind getting it, I think we can provide a very fair meal."
 
Murray nodded and passed out to the car. Upon reaching it, he saw what he had not previously observed—the rear of the front seat was fitted with a large carrying bag, and in the tonneau was an open camera case, from which had been disgorged half a dozen plate-holders, most of them trampled and cracked. The carrying bag was unstrapped, and from it Murray took a quart thermos bottle, then returned.
 
He found the table covered with the contents of the basket—sandwiches, tinned meat, and half a dozen odd little crocks filled with the most amazing Chinese delicacies. Tom Lee ate nothing, but smoked a tiny pipe of gold-mounted bamboo, which Claire filled and lighted for him. Nor did he talk at all, save to answer a direct question, leaving the burden of conversation to Murray and the girl. His eyes watched Murray sharply, however; perhaps he did not fail to note that while the red-headed medico was discreet enough to ask no questions regarding them, he also avoided all reference to himself.
 
"I expect to settle in Two Palms," said Murray suddenly, feeling that they were wondering about him even as he was about them. "For my health. I came here with two friends, and we may all become citizens of the desert for a time."
 
The girl's eyes went to her father, as though to seek from him permission to speak. But Tom Lee watched Murray through his pipe-smoke, and made no sign.
 
"It is a wonderful place," and the girl sighed a little. "Savage and——"
 
"Ah!" exclaimed Murray. "You must have blankets; these nights are cold. You can't use these horribly soiled ones in the bunks, Miss Lee."
 
"There is a suitcase strapped behind the car," spoke up Tom Lee. "Everything necessary is in it."
 
Murray went out to the car and began unstrapping the suitcase he found there. The sun had fallen behind the western buttes—purple-red peaks that seemed to jut out of the level desert floor, solid blocks of shadowed Tyrian now, that with the sunrise would betray the most delicate of greens and pinks, and that with noon would gleam savagely in the harshest and crudest of stark reds.
 
And here the green pear trees, five-year trees, silvered the sunset-reddened sand as though reflecting the pale whiteness of the sky that would darken soon into the deep blue of the spangled night. Murray paused and looked at it all, awed before the silence. Then came a crunch of sand and a voice behind him.
 
"It is the magic hour of the desert—this and the sunrise, yet each so different! I wonder that artists do not try to paint such things, instead of hills in the sun and the bald architecture of buildings! Here is the miracle, and they see it not."
 
Murray turned to the girl. "The miracle indeed, Clairedelune!" he said softly.
 
Her eyes met his, and she was laughing.
 
"That," she said unexpectedly, "is what Father calls me!"
 
"Oh!" said Murray, remembering suddenly. How in the name of everything could a Chinaman pick upon such a name as that—a name of poetry, of romance, almost of oblivion! A sudden distaste for that name seized upon Murray.
 
The girl read the sardonic thoughts in his face, and turned away. A coldness was upon her when she spoke; as it were, a veil was drawn between them.
 
"If you'll bring the suitcase inside, please, we'll get Father fixed up comfortably."
 
Murray obeyed dumbly.
 
Half an hour later, he started for Two Palms. He should have covered the few intervening miles in no time, but one of his forward tires blew out with a roar and left him sitting thoughtfully in the mountain places.
 
By the time complete darkness fell, he had found a spare tube and was patching up the blown tire with fumbling fingers. Presently he got the stubborn rubber obedient to his wishes, and for fifteen minutes labored over a wheezing pump.
 
It was nearly midnight when he came laboring into Two Palms under the flooding moonlight, and with sighs of fervent relief brought his vehicle to a halt beside the dark and silent frame of the hotel.
 
"No, I guess I'll stick to the name," he thought, as he climbed out and gazed at the silvern glory of the night. "Clairedelune! Shall I let a big yellow man drive all the romance out of things? Not yet. Find the best that remains in your life, my boy, and transmute it into precious metal if you can; you need it! Well, it's been a strenuous day—I'm for bed. Time enough in the morning to organize the rescue party."